A good old English Christmas, Monsieur Poirot in the depths of the countryside, long scrackling in the open fire, the Christmas tree,

the crackers, the turkey, and of course the traditional Christmas pudding.

We present John Moffat as Urquil Poirot, in Agatha Christie's The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding.

Oh, I have never cared for the English winter. It is cold and damp and dark.

Over the years, I have learned that the only way to survive is to shut myself up in my apartment

with the radiators turned up and draft excluders everywhere.

So you can well imagine my horror when Mr. Jasmon, that most polished and discreet of diplomats actually proposed that I should spend Christmas in an English country house.

Parts of it actually date from the 14th century.

In the winter I do not leave London, except perhaps for Egypt or the Riviera.

I do not think you quite appreciate what a very serious matter this is.

The future of his highness and indeed of his entire country rests in your hands.

By Mr. Jesmond's side sat an olive-skinned young man who gazed down at his well-polished chues with an

expression of the utmost misery.

Let me to employ a rather tiresome phrase put you in the picture.

His Highness, as I'm sure you are aware, is the only son of the ruler of a state whose interests

have always accorded with those of Great Britain. Recently the country has been passing through a period

of some unrest led by factions opposed to Westernization. A public scandal would inevitably

play into the hands of the forces of disorder and revolution.

His Highness has my heartful sympathy, but what has this to do with...

His Highness has recently become engaged to a young woman of his country and on the occasion of their marriage

She is to be given a precious ruby centuries old known as the hot of fire. The heart of fire. I believe I have heard of it. A month ago his

highness came to England to take the Ruby to cut ears so that it could be given an appropriate

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